"Inside"

 By Matt Duncan

Coastal View News

Lately I’ve found myself wondering what it will be like to do things that I haven’t done—and couldn’t do—since the pandemic began. What will it be like to sit inside a restaurant? Eat in someone else’s house? Go to the movies? I wondered: Will it be awkward? Will I feel anxious? Or will I snap back to normal, business as usual?

 

Last week I went to the movie theater for the first time in over a year. It was not what I expected, though I don’t think COVID-19 can be blamed. My mom and I took my kids—ages eight, five, and three—to see “Space Jam 2” (their choice). After we endured about 30 minutes of its frantic plot and Lebron James’ stiff, phony acting, and once the movie started getting a bit intense for my five-year-old, he announced, “I don’t like this movie.” Seeing as we had the same verdict (though for different reasons), I shuffled him over to the only other kid-friendly movie on offer: “Boss Baby: The Family Business.”

 

I then proceeded to zone out for the next hour and a half as talking babies smashed, hit, chased, screamed, and shot at each other. I tuned in for the touching ending, but the rest is mostly a blur.

 

So after a year of cinematic quarantine, my first trip to the theater yielded no review-generating material.

 

I did, however, then see another movie—a movie kind of about the pandemic, about being stuck inside, which, ironically, hit the theaters for a short run in late July after being on Netflix since May: Bo Burnham’s “Inside.”

 

Burnham started his comedy career at 16 as a Youtube sensation. His trademark is to mix music into his comedy—he writes and performs witty songs on the piano about everything from race to love to gender to social media to mental health.

 

“Inside” takes place inside. During the pandemic. In a single room. Burnham, like everyone else, is stuck inside, and this is his outlet. The movie features lighthearted songs like “FaceTime with My Mom (Tonight)” and “White Woman’s Instagram,” but also darker pieces about depression, politics, and economics.

 

In between, Burnham offers scattered commentary about life in quarantine—about how much it sucks, how frustrating the world is, how annoying people are, and again how much quarantine sucks.

 

Some of the songs in “Inside” are pretty funny. There’s “Bezos I” in which Burnham sarcastically cheers Amazon owner Jeff Bezos to (among other things) the suck the blood of Zuckerberg, Gates, and Buffett. Then there’s “Problematic” in which he (very) self-consciously confesses to all of the (by today’s standards) “problematic” things he’s done in the past. And then there are plenty of other fun songs like “Welcome to the Internet,” “Unpaid Intern,” and “How the World Works.”

 

While the songs of “Inside” are worth the watch, I was less fond of the content in between. O.K., so a rich 30-year-old with no kids to wrangle and no “essential” work to stress over, moans and groans about life in the pandemic. Spare me. Burnham acts as if he bears the weight of the world on his shoulders. Except he doesn’t. At all.

 

Burnham is very self-aware of these dynamics. He constantly brings up his privilege, lack of special insight, and even hypocrisy in ways that on the face of it are self-undermining but are clearly aimed at defusing the criticism, as if noting one’s privilege or hypocrisy makes it vanish, or makes it O.K.

 

I don’t mean to minimize the stress and anxiety that anyone felt during the pandemic—including those who are closer to Burnham’s position. It’s just that, having spent the last year and a half going through it myself, I have limited appetite for listening to someone else whine about it. I suppose some people—maybe even a lot of people—feel that Burnham is giving voice to their own feelings, and they find that cathartic, enjoyable, or something else positive. Fair enough. But there’s a fine line between giving voice to misery and wallowing in it, and I found Burnham’s moping around excessive and annoying.

 

Still, some of the songs are pretty funny. So maybe it’s worth it. Everyone else (especially the critics) seems to think so.

"Luca"

 By Matt Duncan

Coastal View News

Turns out sea monsters are afraid of humans. Fair enough. Humans don’t have a great track record. Especially with things they don’t understand. Or that they’re afraid of. I’d be afraid of them too, if I were a sea monster.

Anyway, rational or not, that’s the psychology of the sea monsters in Pixar’s new movie, “Luca.” So the rules of their underwater domain say stay in the underwater domain. Don’t go up. Don’t show yourself. Hide. Conceal your identity.

Luca (Jacob Tremblay) isn’t listening though. He’s not a bad little sea monster. He’s just curious. He lives off the coast of a quaint little Italian village, and, while he is a bit shy and timid, he can’t help but sneak a peek of the wonders above.

And he’s not alone. One day when he’s close enough to the surface to make his parents cringe, he meets fellow sea monster, Alberto (Jack Dylan Grazer). Alberto doesn’t have much family to keep him in check—he just says his dad isn’t around much—and he’s every bit as curious, and three times as bold, as Luca.

 

Also, Alberto knows a secret: If sea monsters go onto dry land, they don’t just flop around like fish out of water, gasping for oxygen through their gills; rather, they turn into humans—breathing, walking, talking humans.

 

At first when Alberto shares this secret with Luca, Luca is characteristically timid and reluctant. But he’s also curious. And he’s drawn to Alberto like a magnet. So Alberto offers a solution. He calls Luca’s inner scaredy-cat “Bruno,” and teaches Luca the mantra “Silenzio Bruno.”

 

And thus Bruno is silenced. Luca and Alberto’s relationship is strengthened every day as they explore the terrestrial world. Luca’s parents are a bit of a complication. So the pair formulate a plan to run off together on a Vespa.

 

But they need a Vespa. Which isn’t cheap.

 

Yet, ah ha, they catch wind of the Portorosso Cup Race—a triathlon of swimming, biking, and pasta-eating—that has a cash prize. As they inquire further, they’re quickly introduced to the local scene. There’s Ercole Visconti (Saverio Raimondo), an arrogant, good-for-nothing jerk who, yeah, fine, always wins the race.

 

Then there’s Giulia Marcovaldo (Emma Berman), a young girl, who always loses the race but is nice in her own way and befriends Luca and Alberto. After some negotiation, she agrees to add Luca and Alberto to her triathlon team.

 

So they have a team! With two sea monsters on a competition that involves swimming, you’d think things would be looking up. But, remember, when Luca and Alberto go into the water, they turn back into sea monsters, and they can’t let that cat out of the bag. So they have to figure out some other arrangement to beat Ercole. And everyone else. Without letting on that they’re monsters. Or being found by their parents. Silenzio Bruno, Silenzio Bruno …

 

“Luca” is sweet. Nothing groundbreaking. It’s just sweet. The relationship between Luca and Alberto is nice, it’s good, it’s warm. It’s complicated by the plot they weave themselves into, but, in other ways, it’s simple, pure.

 

Add that to a beautiful composed film, set in a beautiful location, and we’re off to the races.

 

This is not a very ambitious film. The themes of identity, shame, and self-confidence are immediately evident and never strained too hard with divisive political overtures. Some may balk at that, wishing for more. But I say it’s for the best.

 

“Luca” is simple. It won’t knock your socks off. But after a year-plus of drama, it feels kind of nice to just chill by the beach with a friend.

"Oxygen"

 By Matt Duncan

Coastal View News

In the 11^th century, Islamic philosopher Ibn Sina—more commonly known in the West as “Avicenna”—introduced a thought experiment. He asked us to imagine that someone—you, let’s say—was created an instant ago in a blank void. You have no memories, beliefs, thoughts, nor can you see, hear, smell, taste, or feel anything. You’re just floating in the void. Imagine what that would be like. What it be like anything at all? Or would it just be lights out, no one’s home?

 

Now consider a different, more modern version of the thought experiment. Imagine that you woke up an instant ago strapped into a futuristic pod. You don’t know where you are, and you can’t remember how you got there. Nor can you remember much of anything else. You can see things—such as the contours of the pod with its futuristic screens and displays, buttons and mechanisms. You can hear things—most notably MILO, the pod’s AI “assistant”. And you certainly can feel things—like the straps restricting your movement and a tightly bound wrap enclosing most of your body, as well as the racing of your heart, the burning of your lungs, and the confusion, anxiety, and sheer terror evoked by your situation.

 

So, unlike Avicenna’s “Flying Man” thought experiment, you have all sorts of sensory experiences. But you don’t know what to make of them. In that way, you’re a blank page, starting from scratch. What do you?

 

This is “Oxygen”—a new Netflix Original sci-fi thriller. Elizabeth Hansen (Melanie Laurent), who at first only knows of herself by the computer code name assigned to her, wakes up blank-page-like into a pod. She has flashes of memory. But she doesn’t know much about who she is, where she is, or how she got there.

 

What she does know is that something is wrong with the pod. MILO (Mathieu Amalric) tells her that there’s been a malfunction, an error. That, no doubt, is why she’s awake.

 

O.K, so now she wants out. But she can’t get out. She doesn’t have the required admin password.

 

Another thing Hansen learns pretty quickly—because MILO keeps telling her—is that her oxygen is running low. She only has so much time to figure things out. And, of course, the more she panics the harder she breathes, and the harder she breathes the quicker the oxygen runs out.

 

So Hansen has to get it together and solve her problem quickly. MILO helps some—he’ll answer any question he’s programmed to answer. But he’s only programmed to answer, or do, so much. He’s a smart AI, but it’s not like he knows, or gets, what Hansen is thinking, feeling, and wanting such that he can just cut to the chase and devise a strategy for her escape.

 

That’s up to Hansen. She’s got to figure it out. Eventually she finds a way to call the police. They seem willing to help. But they need more info about Hansen’s situation. Which she of course doesn’t have. She is able to give them the manufacturer and serial number of the pod, but the police can’t locate it. They need more info.

 

As Hansen thinks, thinks, thinks, memories start to come back in little bits. With the help of MILO, she’s able to piece together that she’s a well-known scientist who works on cryogenics, and she has a husband who appears to be sick. But things end up being more complicated—and surprising—than anyone in that state could imagine.

 

Still, she’s only got so long to figure it out. Oxygen at 23 percent. 14 percent. Eight percent. Three percent …

 

“Oxygen” is captivating. It is beautifully simple. The entirety of it takes place in an area not much larger than a casket. Yet it explores vast themes about the far reaches of technology, the nature of personal identity, and the future of humankind. As the information trickles in, there’s more to think about, more to ponder.

 

The puzzle itself is a futuristic Sherlock Holmes story. Hansen has to piece it together, we have to piece it together. And the tension feels real. Not only do we have to think it through, we know we’re on the clock—stuck in a tiny space with naught but our wits and dwindling air to breathe.

 

Stuck in a tiny space with naught but our wits and dwindling air—I suppose that’s how a lot of us have felt over the past year (the creators of “Oxygen” know this, of course, along with other relevant details about how things are going for us humans). Which makes the film all the more effective, more relatable, more real.

 

People differ in their reactions to Avicenna’s “Flying Man”—some agree that they’d still be self-aware in such a scenario, other say it’d just be nothingness. But it’s all too easy to know what it’d be like in the “Oxygen” scenario. And it’s breathtaking.

"Please Stand By"

 By Matt Duncan

Coastal View News

We’re almost there—we’re almost back to the movies. After more than a year of binge watching movies and TV and sports and Youtube and anything else we could stream from home, the time is almost here when we can bask in the warm glow of those neon lights, pay way too much for way too much popcorn, and get reacquainted with that bigger, louder, more intense cinematic experience. I can’t wait.

 

But we’re not quite there yet, at least not most of us. So we might as well plop back down on the couch and harken back to some pre-pandemic cinema for good feels.

 

Enter “Please Stand By” (now streaming on Hulu). This movie is apt, because it is about tough times and, more importantly, about getting past them, overcoming them, learning from them.

 

It is about Wendy (Dakota Fanning), a young autistic woman living in a group home. She’s looked after by Scottie (Toni Collette).

 

Scottie cares a ton about Wendy and just wants the best for her. Still, Wendy doesn’t want to live there. She wants to live with her sister, Audrey (Alice Eve). Audrey also cares about Wendy, but, ugh, you know how it is, it’s tough looking after someone with a disability. Audrey feels guilty about it (hats off to her). But of course that’s not enough to spring Wendy from her institutional cage.

 

So, whatever, Wendy’ll do it herself. She hatches a plan to escape.

 

It’s a pretty nerdy plan. You see, Wendy isn’t always happy or comfortable, but one thing she does love, and makes her feel totally at home, is Star Trek. She’s a Treky. She especially likes the cool, emotionless, logical Spock. And there’s a contest. Paramount Pictures is running a writing contest. $100,000 goes to the fan who writes the best script for an episode of Star Trek.

 

This is perfect for Wendy. She understands Star Trek—like, she really gets it. And she can write. And, hey, with $100k, she can leave the group home. Originally Wendy planned to just mail her script in, but when that doesn’t work out, she decides to ditch the fight and go for the flight.

 

Wendy plans to break out of her group home in Oakland, somehow get to Paramount Pictures in Los Angeles, submit her manuscript, win the prize money, and then live long and prosper.

 

This may be a good idea in theory (well, kinda). But Wendy hits snags almost immediately. First, the group home’s little dog convinces Wendy to take it with her. So now she has a dog. Then Wendy realizes that traveling places isn’t easy when you’ve never traveled places before. She needs money and tickets and etiquette and food and the kindness of strangers.

 

Unfortunately, as we all know, strangers are not always kind. Especially to someone like Wendy, who struggles to make eye contact, who acts in a way that others perceive as rude or offensive, and who, as a result, gets frustrated.

 

It’s pretty clear that Wendy has a disability. So one option for strangers, you’d think, would be compassion. But, no, not for someone like Wendy. See, Wendy is difficult. She’s harsh. She’s sometimes annoying. She’s not like a cute kid with cancer or a decorated vet in a wheelchair—now those things elicit compassion.

 

It’s not her fault, sure, but as we saw with her sister, if it’s too frustrating, better to just sweep it under the rug. Out of sight out of mind.

 

Most of the strangers that Wendy encounters are either dismissive of her in this way, or they take advantage of her. A few don’t. So a key question, which of course generalizes beyond Wendy, is: Is that enough?

 

Wendy has one, relatively simple goal: Deliver her manuscript. She shouldn’t have to go it alone. But she mostly does. She can’t go it completely alone—no one can. So, again, how much help is enough?

 

“Please Stand By” is a touching portrayal of a kind of life led by many but truly seen by few. Dakota Fanning brings to life the misunderstanding, alienation, and deep frustration of being autistic in a non-(or anti-?)autistic world.

 

And yet the movie maintains a relatively upbeat tone. It doesn’t feel like devastating expose. It gently tugs rather than yanks on your heartstrings.

 

“Please Stand By” is a simple, even somewhat predictable movie. It does not try to do too much. Yet it also raises important questions about autism, how our society treats those who are “not normal”, what it means to help someone, and what success looks like for Wendy, or for anyone.

 

It’s a prime time to think about overcoming adversity. We’ve all had a fair share of it over the past year. Part of the overcoming is learning. And, as Wendy’s story illustrates, we’ve all got a lot to learn.

"Mank"

 By Matt Duncan

Coastal View News

“Mank” received the most Oscar nominations of any movie this year, proving once again that Hollywood likes itself.

 

This movie is about movies—and movie makers. “Mank” refers to Herman Mankiewicz (Gary Oldman), writer of “Citizen Kane”.

 

Herman is your typical Hollywood tragic hero. That is to say, he’s a hot mess. He’s an alcoholic, a grump, and a tyrant. He also just broke his leg in a car accident. So he’s stuck in bed.

 

That’s where this movie picks up—Herman in bed with nothing to do but rant, rave, and crave booze.

 

Then none other than Orson Welles gives him something to do. He wants Herman to write a movie for him. So, with nothing better to do, Herman gets on it, dictating the script to his secretary, Rita Alexander (Lily Collins).

 

Rita notices that the main character in Herman’s story is an awful lot like media magnate William Randolph Hearst. Then come the flashbacks—from when Herman knew Hearst. The rest of “Mank” oscillates between 1940—when Herman is working on “Citizen Kane”—and the 1930s, when Herman was just getting started.

 

1930 is when Herman was first introduced to Hearst (Charles Dance) by actress Marion Davies (Amanda Seyfried). Herman and Hearst hit it off, and, as a result, a lot of the 1930s for Herman seems to be spent getting boozy at his buddy’s castle.

 

But there is a more serious side to their upper-crust social life: politics. They like to sit around talking about the Nazis, socialism, and the California governor’s race. A lot of them want hotshot socialist Upton Sinclair to be governor, but Hearst doesn’t. Hearst funds a smear campaign against Sinclair and, in the process, unhappily implicates the others who are forced by their Hearst-funded employers at MGM to produce the smear films.

 

Back in 1940 Herman’s work on “Citizen Kane” is up and down. Standard stuff: Producers worry that Herman isn’t making enough progress. Others worry about the content, or the style, or the politics, or whatever. Eventually, he finishes it. Some like it (a lot), some don’t (a lot).

 

Then more squabbling occurs over whether to go ahead and make the film (no spoiler needed there), whether to credit Herman as a writer, and so on.

 

Yes, Hollywood likes itself. And it likes to revel. It likes to tell its golden tales of yore as though they’re modern Iliads—and as though everyone, Hollywood-insider or not, would and should give a care.

 

No doubt some will give a care, if for no other reason than that this insider-baseball story is told with such style. Gary Oldman is mesmerizing. Director David Fincher (who is using his late father Jack’s screenplay) knows how to make a movie. The black-and-white cinematography is at times warmly nostalgic and at other times eerie and unsettling.

 

I like movies plenty (obviously). But, if you couldn’t already tell, I found myself not caring all that much about this story. I’m a curious enough guy, and I like little historical vignettes of all sorts, so I’m not totally sure why I wanted so badly to yawn at my TV, to really let it know that I’m over it, I don’t care.

 

Maybe it’s to offset Hollywood’s out-of-whack interest in itself. Herman Mankiewicz, Orson Welles, Marion Davies, William Randolph Hearst, “Citizen Kane”! These are interesting things! But, I don’t know, maybe they’re not that interesting—not portrayed like this, not as a saga of the SoCal pantheon. At any rate, it is a bit gross to witness the self-referential self-love ooze from the screen (and splatter all over the Oscar envelopes).

 

“Mank” drums up some complexity by showing the role Hollywood played in pre-WWII politics. Perhaps this provides some nice allegories and lessons about the relationship between the set and the statehouse. Or perhaps, again, Hollywood has an outsized sense of its importance: thinking of itself as some vital source of change despite being impotent to do anything but make movies about its impotence—its heroic, tragic, well-meaning impotence.

 

Now, the money in Hollywood—whether it’s from Hearst, Welles, Oprah, or whoever it is that funded “Mank”—maybe that makes a big behind-the-scenes difference. Maybe that’ll get you House seats, statehouses, and Oscar nods. But two things about money in politics: First: No duh! And, second: Yuck.

 

Enjoy it if you can.

"Nomadland"

 By Matt Duncan

Coastal View News

How much do you need? A house? Running water and a toilet? A stable job? Health insurance? Restaurants, bars, friends, families, TV, and other entertainment? Most of us enjoy most of these things, but how much of it do we really need?

 

Nomads say: Not much. These nomads, which really do exist, roam the U.S. in their Ford- and Chevy-made ships of the desert. They eat what they can, work when they can, and sleep where they can—mostly in their vans.

 

Fern (Frances McDormand) is a nomad. She wasn’t always. She used to work with her husband in a U.S. Gypsum plan in Empire, Nevada. Then her husband died and the plant shut down (the whole town did, in fact). Everything crumbled. So, at the start of “Nomadland” (which just won Best Motion Picture at the Golden Globes and is streaming on Hulu), there is nothing tethering Fern to anything.

 

So she lets it all go. She sells a lot of her stuff, puts the rest in storage, buys a van, and heads out. She picks up temporary jobs here and there and radically simplifies her life.

 

Fern is quiet and reserved. She doesn’t exactly look happy—and you can tell her mind is elsewhere—but she insists she’s fine. She’s getting by. She’s making it. This isn’t the life she set out for herself, and boy does she sure miss her husband, but life on the road is now her life—the life she chose.

 

A bunch of others chose it too. A small army of nomads (several of whom are real-life nomads) come up around Fern, becoming her support, her community. The nomads are tough, but kind. They readily help each other out and revel in each other’s company, though they always end up saying goodbye.

 

The nomads have a different way of looking at things. Instead of asking how much we need, nomads—or anyone, really—might more helpfully ask how much we really want. A lot of people want as much as they can get, or more. But nomads embrace a different way of life. The austerity—or, rather, simplicity—of their lives does not always, or perhaps even usually, spring from a failure to acquire more and more stuff; it often springs from their belief that acquiring more and more stuff isn’t good—it isn’t healthy, it isn’t desirable, it’s not worth wanting. Stuff weighs you down. So does the owning of it.

 

Still, it’s not always easy to square the appeal of this message with the evident fact that, in many ways, nomads really do have it hard. Even aside from the strain of living off of odd jobs, eating out of a camper, and pooping in a bucket, life on the road takes its toll in many other ways. There may be something liberating about going where you want when you want, but it also looks to be pretty lonely and isolating.

 

Which is all to say that it’s complex. As is “Nomadland.” This movie consistently holds together contrasting moods—both positive and negative affect—in such organic, authentic, simple ways. It makes you feel bad for nomads, while also, in other ways, making you jealous of their courage and independence. The nomads are close to each other, despite constantly parting ways; their bond is, by its nature, evanescent—bound up in saying, “See you down the road.”

 

“Nomadland” is sad, but also beautiful. You see it on Fern’s face. There’s no hiding the hurt, the pain, the sorrow. Unlike the rest stops and short-term work, there’s no moving on from what she lost. It’s etched into the lines on her face. It’s a tired sadness—a weariness.

 

Yet there are also clear skies and sunsets, the open road and kinship. One way of looking at the nomads is as running away from something. Some are. But maybe for some it’s more like: keep moving, stay alive, one foot in front of the other.

 

That feeling is worth sitting with. Not trying to change it, or fix it, or move on—as if that were possible—but just recognizing the feeling. A lot of people feel it—the sadness mixed in with little glimmers of … what is it? Hope? Beauty? O.K.-ness? Whatever it is, “Nomadland” offers a meaningful glimpse. It’s not cheery. But it is good.

"The Little Things"

 By Matt Duncan

Coastal View News

I’m ready for the good old days. The nowadays are tough. And even the glimmers of hope—vaccines, new leadership, an improving economy—just make me all the more ready to turn the page and get back to the way things were. I’ve started to listen to NPR again (I couldn’t stomach the news for the last while). And my wife and I are re-watching/re-devouring the fancifully optimistic “The West Wing”.

We are also part of a 90s movie night series with some friends (though it’s on hiatus right now). The 90s—those were the days for some fun movies. Twisty plots, soaring musical scores, ridiculous action sequences, and bad guys that everyone could get pissed at.

“The Little Things” (now streaming on HBO Max) bills itself as a throwback to those movies. Here are some of its familiar tropes: Joe “Deke” Deacon (Denzel Washington) is an old detective with a haunted past. Once upon a time he was a brilliant investigator—best close rate in the area—but now (in the 1990s) he’s rusting away as a deputy Sherriff in Kern County, California. 

Jim Baxter (Rami Malek) is a young, idealistic, hotshot detective in the Los Angeles Sherriff’s Department. He has a bleeding heart for victims, and can’t rest—won’t rest—until justice is served. There’s a serial killer afoot in L.A.—really brutal stuff—so Baxter is on high alert.

Meanwhile Deacon starts to nose around the area, too, thinking that the recent murders look a lot like some scenes from his still-murky-but-obviously-painful past.

Both Baxter and Deacon dig for a little while—sometimes in sync, sometimes at odds with each other. When they finally get together to chat about it, Baxter—bless his soul—confesses his unrelenting addiction to crime-avenging. Deacon warns him, “There are no angels.”

Eventually the pair meet another trope: A creepy auto mechanic—Albert Sparma (Jared Leto)—who is ham-handedly setting off all the murderer alarm bells. Still, Sparma is pretty smart—more like conniving—so he can’t be pinned down. Even for us, the audience, it’s not perfectly clear whether he’s The Guy or just a super sketchy crime buff.

At this point, anyone who has watched a fair share of 90s movies—especially in the action/thriller genre—will no doubt be shrouded in a feeling of familiarity. Whether it feels more like a warm blanket of nostalgia or a suffocating sheath of unoriginality may vary. But it’s there.

For me, the feel of the movie was pretty appealing. Sinister, but not soul-crushing. Realistic enough, but nothing deeply stressing. Complicated but not confusing. Idealistic but not preachy (well, most of the time … some of Malek’s lines are a bit much).

I also enjoyed the acting (I mean, with those three leads, how could I not?) and parts of the bendy plot. For I’d say about 90 minutes of the two-hour movie I felt transported to the good-old days of 90s cinema.

But the rest of it was sort of botched—a cheap knock-off of the thrills and chills of movies like “Seven” or “Silence of the Lambs”. The ending, in particular, betrayed the movie. It was cheesy and not half as clever as it took itself to be.

Come to think of it, a lot of 90s movies also failed in exactly these ways. So I guess, in the end, it’s not a 90s movie that I really long for. It’s a good movie. Just as I’d settle for some good 2021 days—they don’t have to be old—so too I’d go for a movie with good atmosphere, both realism and idealism, good acting, and a fun, well executed plot.

Alas, “The Little Things” isn’t quite there.